


The City and the Tower

by primeideal



Category: Quatrevingt-treize | Ninety-three - Victor Hugo
Genre: 5+1 Things, Gen, Yuletide 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 10:05:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8840392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/pseuds/primeideal
Summary: Five verses Cimourdain translated, and one he didn't.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lifeisyetfair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeisyetfair/gifts).



> Huge thanks to prinzenhasserin for betaing; any remaining errors are mine!

_The bows of the mighty are broken, but the feeble gird on strength._ 1 Samuel 2:4 (Hannah's Prayer)

The young men of the seminary had come from great towns all over. Claude was an elder student in Paris, already idling his way through Latin exams when he had found a more inspiring use for his rote learning; Jean-Luc, the younger brother of a pious but reclusive monk who had disappeared into a hermitage years earlier; Herman, the possibly illegitimate son of a wealthy mayor, determined to rise above any scurrilous rumors about his origins. Mathieu, in contrast, was the son of rural villagers who had encouraged their son's vocation as best they could from the time it became clear that he dreamed of standing in front of a church sanctuary with powerful words at his command. The academic rigor of seminary was unlike any other challenge Mathieu had met in the small towns he had previously known, but he had resolved himself. He would not fail at the first hurdle, but rather, he would exhaust every resource at his disposal. He would give it his utmost, whether that meant availing himself of tutors, asking elder students for texts to borrow, or something as simple as befriending fellow rural students.

Cimourdain could not help but admire him.

Despite their shared background—for Cimourdain, too, was of a peasant family—they had not spent much time together before Mathieu came to Cimourdain asking for help editing an essay to bring it up to the professors' standards. Before that, Cimourdain was as likely as any of the others to be found listening to Jean-Luc explain the finer points of Huguenot heresies, or tracking down a reference that had led him to another citation that had led him on a wild goose chase through obscure texts in the archives, purely for the thrill of the chase. At least until Mathieu had explained his fears. “Has anyone suggested that you cannot succeed here?” Cimourdain asked, recalling derisive looks exchanged behind backs. “Those wishing to be the servants of all people often have their own modesty ring the falsest, but nevertheless: You can prove any man your worth.”

“Prove it how?” Mathieu blinked. “I daresay Father Jean-Baptiste would not take kindly to spontaneous defenses of my own honor.”

“Not _everything_ needs to be resolved via fisticuffs,” said Cimourdain. “Give over, let me see what can be done about this.”

It transpired that Mathieu's work was quite original. When he wasn't distracted by memories of schoolboy scraps, he had fresh insights many of the other students, who had churned out dozens of similar essays over the years, lacked. What Mathieu did not have, however, was any familiarity with the standard formatting. Some of the nuance of the urban orthography also went beyond his understanding. Cimourdain was not sure whether the professors marking the essays cared about these things or had found some other, more subtle criticism of Mathieu's work.

It left him at an uneasy juncture; to let the small errors go, which might defeat the purpose of Mathieu having sought him out in the first place, or take the liberty of rewriting them himself? The latter might impose too firm a hand, for what justice was it to correct a man's ways that Mathieu himself had never been taught were a mistake before? In the end Cimourdain settled for the lightest ink and the smallest questioning marks, though he filled the margins with comments.

When Mathieu saw the scratched-up essay, his face still fell. “Do not despair,” Cimourdain said, “we can make progress together.”

“You'd keep assisting me?”

“Of course! Besides, you'll need to keep an eye on me—to make sure I do not plagiarize your ideas about the prophet Samuel.”

“You wouldn't dare!” Mathieu gasped, then turned and squinted. “Would you?”

“Certainly not. But that's why we'll work together, you see, to avoid even the illusion of impropriety.”

That was how their friendship grew. Through the years Mathieu and Cimourdain continued studying together. Mathieu was relieved and proud to have the friendship of a student who was increasingly spoken of as one of the seminary's brightest. And while Cimourdain had been in no hurry to adopt the label of “yet another country boy” among his peers, he found it only natural to have that part of himself considered as he rose in esteem. When they looked at him, they ought to see not a visage cut from stained glass or iron walls, but the faces of parents who had raised him with an ear for learning far from the city.

Thus, when Bishop Duval arrived at the seminary for the purpose of ordination, he found each of the graduating clergy students in turn standing ready to be ordained and receive a call. Herman was to become a counselor to noble men seeking guidance, while Claude was excited to be sent to minister in far-flung villages. Mathieu, for his part, was thrilled at receiving a parish appointment in his hometown. “Would you do me the honor of visiting?” he asked Cimourdain before leaving. “After all you have done for me, I am sure my family would be happy to host you.”

“Gladly!”

It had been a timely appointment; the former priest in Mathieu's parish had recently passed away, and his sisters were eager to catch up on the local gossip while his parents fretted over the travail of hosting a visitor, and a newly-frocked one at that! Cimourdain tried to assure them that he would be no trouble, but couldn't help be relieved when Sunday morning came around and he could get out of their way quickly.

All went well during the service itself. Mathieu's sermon was quick and to the point, and as he recited the words of institution during Mass, his parents beamed with pride. Cimourdain shook hands with his friend afterwards and thanked him for his hospitality. “Your family must be very happy for you!”

“Ah well,” Mathieu shrugged it off, “not like it matters to them who's up there, really?”

“Certainly, they must be glad.”

“The same Latin mumbled back and forth every week—it's a great mystery, and all, but it surely is a _mystery_.”

“But you understand it.”

“I've memorized it.”

“The words of the Mass, of course. And all the other Latin we studied?”

“That _you_ studied, Cimourdain.”

Cimourdain gritted his teeth, suddenly conscious of the distance that had always been between them—that would grow again, as soon as he turned back towards his own call. “Be well, Mathieu.”

“And you, Cimourdain.”

Perhaps he would not choose the life of the village pastor just quite yet.

 _It happened, late one afternoon, when David rose from his couch and was walking about on the roof of the king’s house, that he saw from the roof a woman bathing; the woman was very beautiful._ 2 Samuel 11:2 (David and Bathsheba)

It was a fair spring morning, and even a talented pupil like Gauvain had been cooped up over the bitter winter. After seeing the progress his pupil had made across the board, Cimourdain had concluded that Gauvain was old enough to commence equestrian instruction, and began making inquiries into the village as to where he might find a stable to loan horses.

This was summarily accomplished. Gauvain learned to stay on a horse without falling, and once he could ride a distance, Cimourdain began taking him out for jaunts. On one of these, Gauvain's mare developed a limp partway out and had to be walked back. Cimourdain informed the stablehand of this, who suggested taking the mare to the farrier of Parigné, who had forged the horseshoes, and checking whether they had been improperly fit.

So Cimourdain went along, with Gauvain in tow. The farrier had been plying his trade for many years, but had no recollection of that particular stable, and groused at the prospect that some inattentive apprentice might have done a slipshod job of shoeing. He sat down and began examining it, while Gauvain quietly stared at the forge, admiring the sparks as they rose up and dissipated into the air.

Cimourdain sighed, settling in for what appeared to be a long wait. Fortunately, Gauvain was patient, and as long as his charge was in a good mood Cimourdain would not grow irritated.

A distraction for the child arrived shortly after, in the form of the farrier's daughter, Iris. She seemed neither old nor young, and was one of those individuals who never had much interest at the prospect of being a parent, yet always grinned with delight at the prospect of spending an hour teasing and being entertained by another's child. The orphan had no shame in introducing himself to the stranger and babbling about. “And do you ride a great stallion?” she asked him in jest.

“Oh, no madam, I do not, for a stallion is a gentleman horse, and mine is a lady, but she is very great! Only I hope I have not hurt her too much. She lost a shoe, you see.”

“You must have galloped very fast!”

“Not yet, but I am learning!”

“I do not think I have seen you around Parigné?”

“Sometimes I get to come exploring. But I live in the Tour-Gauvain!”

“Gauvain?” she echoed.

“Yes,” said the child, “that is my name!”

Iris laughed. “Then you must know the Marquis de Lantenac.”

“He is my great-uncle!” Gauvain smiled.

“Gauvain!” said Cimourdain.

“Yes?”

“Go and watch the farrier at his work. There is much you can learn from him. Only, do not sit too close to the forge—it is dangerous for one so young as you.”

“I am big enough to ride a horse!” Gauvain protested. “I may watch a little fire.”

“That is fair. But stay back,” said Cimourdain. He nodded at the door, and Iris followed him outside.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing. Only tell me, what do you know of the marquis?”

Iris hesitated. “What is it of any concern to you?”

“I had not expected him to have dealings in Parigné. He is at court, he has his military duties to carry out,” Cimourdain asked warily. “Surely he has little time to spend here.”

“The Marquis is a man of great wealth and great estate. Such men have time to dispose of at their leisure. Every few months, he is called upon to see to parochial matters in the vicinity of which he is marquis.”

“Of course, I know all this,” Cimourdain snapped. Someone had to make sure his wallets were filled, and that everything was looked after in the Vendée. Yet surely Lantenac would not linger in the village, when he had so little time for his orphan relative?

“Very well,” said Iris, as if that settled the matter.

“Hold a moment,” Cimourdain said, still perplexed. “You have _met_ this man?”

“Certainly!”

“What does he do here, have horses shod?”

“Paris is a long way away,” she answered evasively.

“And if I were to ask all the other craftsmen of the town—the butcher, the baker, the chandler—they would tell me the same?”

“I suppose so.”

Cimourdain considered this. “If I asked the women, then?”

Iris hesitated. “It is not for me to speak for anyone else, but I would hope that no one here knows his footsteps as I do.”

“He is my employer.”

“He is a friend.”

“He is an important man in Versailles.”

“He is a respected man in Parigné.”

“But the people here do not speak with him—you have said so!”

“But they hear of him, and know he is very great, and is still a man who dreams as other men do,” Iris said obstinately.

“Dreams—what has a man such as him to dream of!”

“Why, the same things many other men dream of,” Iris smirked, “and that they also strive for by day.”

“He thinks himself above mere labor.”

“There is play that may be as widespread as work.”

Lantenac...and a peasant woman? Cimourdain could hardly wrap his mind around the image. “Does the courtier think to court!” 

“What of it! He is at liberty.”

“Has the nation any?”

“For my part I do not trouble myself with things too large for me; yet Monsieur d'Marquis is not much of a giant.”

“You do not fear that your fellow villagers will crane their necks looking up to him?”

“Certainly not, for we know when it is meet to bow.”

“And do you think that you are the only subject of his affections, that he meets no one to delight in at the courts of Versailles?”

“Versailles, as I have said, is too large for me. When he is near me, we see no one else, and that is all I need.”

“Then take care, that your heart is not counted as debt.”

“What choice do I have?”

“In such a place as this? Perhaps little, indeed.” Cimourdain paced back inside. “Come, Gauvain. Your lessons in horseshoeing may need to be of a more theoretical bent.”

 _He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts._ Luke 1:51 (The Magnificat)

“Very good, yes,” Cimourdain said, glancing around the Tourgue's library. “'Mary' comes from the same root word as 'Miriam,' see here—”

“And both singers?” Gauvain asked.

“What?”

“Does Miriam in the Exodus not also sing a song of praise?”

“Yes, it's a very ancient text.”

“Aren't they _all_ ancient?”

“That's as may be—”

“And what about Mara?”

“What?”

“'Call me Mara, for I am bitter'—”

“Different etymology.”

Gauvain paused. “But that sounds more similar!”

“Sounds can be misleading. Once you have learned more languages, you will see how the patterns fit together.”

“And just how many languages do you intend on having me learn?”

“As many as you wish to master, notwithstanding that interludes for the natural sciences are important, as well. Take your rest, and we shall resume some other time.”

“Do you really wish me to attempt further instruction in alchemy!”

“Frankly, yes. It is no shame to fail the first time you attempt a challenge, but to let that be a reason to shrink from it again is unworthy of a scholar. Still—” Cimourdain winced, recalling the explosions that had marked Gauvain's first excursions into the burgeoning field “—perhaps not _quite_ so soon.”

“Very well,” Gauvain said, mustering up a fresh hope.

“Go to and amuse yourself, then, the grounds will be pleasant on a day such as this.”

Gauvain laughed. “ _You_ go to and amuse yourself.”

“Have I displeased you?”

“Not at all! Merely, I will be staying here.”

Cimourdain took in the books and busts, and suppressed a laugh. “Do you need to brush up on your scansion for practicing love-verses, or are you expecting tourists to show off your great-uncle's quarto?”

“None of your business,” Gauvain scowled.

“Peace! I'll leave you to it,” Cimourdain said, pacing towards the iron door that marked the room's exit. He supposed that it was only natural to have raised a scholar who took to the books as his companions; still, perhaps it would be good for Gauvain to have some other children his own age to see every once in a while. It almost made Cimourdain wonder if Lantenac would deign to write instructions to allow visitors to flock to the tower's historical attractions, but he immediately wrote off that idea. From what he had gathered of the marquis, he would as soon flirt with the literary pilgrims as invite them.

Instead it was Cimourdain who passed down the spiral staircase, passed by the Latin proverb hanging in the granary advising him when to make hay (perhaps once it had served as agricultural advice for the inhabitants of the Tourgue, but he had used it to help Gauvain practice both his calendar of saints and his verb endings), shuddered at the dusty muskets on the entry floor, and walked the grounds, all the while trusting that Gauvain's devices were worth leaving him to. Only in the evening, after supper, did they reconvene.

“We have not yet finished your education for the day,” Cimourdain said.

“Oh?” Gauvain asked.

“I thought I might instruct you in something you cannot directly experiment on, and therefore cannot bring to ruin.”

“At this hour?”

“At precisely this hour,” Cimourdain said. “Come along.”

They bundled up and left the Tourgue to a place slightly outside the gates. It was a chilly night, and a brisk current was coursing through the ravine far beyond the tower. “Are you a master of stealth woodcraft?” Gauvain asked curiously. “Do I get to learn how to sneak around at night?”

“Not yet, I'm afraid.” Cimourdain's smile belied the joke, suggesting relief that they would be focusing on more sedentary endeavors. “Now, look up!”

“Yes?”

“What do you see?”

“There is the tower, and the trees, that are Fougères.”

“Beyond that, Gauvain, are the stars, and each one of them is a sun that is like our own sun. You cannot see the moon tonight, for it is being made new, but you may learn how to chart its phases, and see its craters and imperfections. And although you cannot see it, the very earth we live on goes spinning around the sun! Perhaps there may even be worlds like our own orbiting other stars.”

“You speak of the constellations!”

“Of course!”

“But I already know of these things!” Gauvain beamed. “Look, there is Orion, whose belt is all a line. There is the bull which he hunts. And that is the great bear, who points towards the northern star.”

“Bulls and bears! You are more prodigious than I give you credit for, sometimes.”

“Does that mean I have to go back inside?”

“You may stay out and admire the view, if you wish.”

Gauvain gladly stared into the evening, his contemplation uninterrupted for some time. Eventually Cimourdain went back inside, found a book, and came back out. Finally, Gauvain turned back to him. “You cannot be reading in this darkness?”

“Tell me,” Cimourdain said, closing it, “what is Galileo known for?”

“What?”

“Galileo?”

“Is he one of the southern ones?”

“Southern? Yes, in his way.”

“I don't know any of the southern ones.”

“Excuse me?”

“The constellations. If the story doesn't end with 'and then Zeus placed them in the sky,' I don't know what they're named.” At Cimourdain's concerned face, visible even by starlight, Gauvain added, “Indeed, I am aware that Zeus and all these others are characters of _mythology_ , nevertheless, I'm assuming Galileo is some kind of Latin name—”

“Galileo is some kind of Latin name, indeed. Perhaps as part of your historical studies we can incorporate not only the Classics but also the newer developments.”

“Am I not to persevere in astronomy, either?”

“I think there may be little I can teach you short of sending for a small telescope, and I fear that such a device may be too fragile to withstand the—ah—perilous journey to our remote location.”

“Then I may be liberated from the sciences?”

“Not so fast, my young scholar, we will find something suitably abstract for you yet. Perhaps it is finally time to commence our assault on Euclid's _Elements._ ”

 _Rash words are like sword thrusts, but the tongue of the wise brings healing_. Proverbs 12:18

In the halls of the Convention, the members of the National Assembly had yet to decide whether or not to kill the king. It was a topic for another time, another year. Whether a living man would go on living was not yet their concern—they had other goals, both more mundane and more lofty, to debate and ponder.

The people of Paris were not going to wait for any government to tell them whether it was their prerogative to topple kings, and if in doing so they might spill blood. That impetus came from both below and from above; both from people whose names had been forgotten but whose wills and voices were determined to leave their mark, not by building a hollow monument to their own glories but by eroding the barriers that tyrants had laid down before them. Only, some acted in multitudes, and some brave people took initiative of their own.

In the streets of Paris, the statues fell like severed checker-men, discarded puppets, stones in a river of life.

Cimourdain kept watch, supervising the downfall of the effigies, and threw a rope to choke a certain stone Louis. It sailed past its mark, and a peasant woman picked it up in the streets before straining herself to her full height to toss it about Louis' feet. Cimourdain moved to help, but a man stood by, watching from across the street with a strange object tucked under his arm, and waved at him. “Excuse me?”

“Yes?” Cimourdain said, and then told to his fellow revolutionaries to take care as he crossed the street, leaving to meet the stranger.

He was not a well-dressed man, and seemed almost as shabbily dressed as the peasants with whom Cimourdain proudly rose up. Amid all the inflation and the scarcity, he seemed to have acquired some small luxuries, for he bore drawing paper and a quill with which he sketched the city. Rather than the fleeting faces of his fellow-citizens passing by, the man had taken to drawing the features of the monarchs that had, until quite recently, stood on the nearby platforms.

Filled with curiosity, and unsure which of his many questions might best sate it, Cimourdain finally settled on, “What brings you here?”

“A man has a right to walk the streets of his city, has he not?” the man rebutted.

“Certainly, citizen.”

“And I choose to admire all the fine art that is on display.”

“Well—” _good fortune_ would have been a lie—“You may wish to look elsewhere for the time being. This crowd is an ill-tempered one, and they will not take kindly to anyone in their way.”

“No, I daresay they will not.” He closed his pad. “But you are surely the Abbé Cimourdain.”

Cimourdain nodded.

“And do you not recognize me, Father?”

Cimourdain quickly racked his brains, trying to trace the sounds of the man's voice. A native French speaker, by the sounds of it, and likely Parisian rather than from the outlying regions. Not that it would have mattered, he would have been happy to speak to him in any number of languages, if he only had a clue to work with. Of course, his reputation preceded him to many people, and he was not sure if this was a trap or this really was a visitor from his past coming back. “I am afraid not. What with all the responsibilities of the revolution...”

“Perfectly understandable,” he said. “Only, for a brief moment, I considered you as near to me as a father.”

Cimourdain raised his eyebrows and said “That's not one I've heard before.”

“Beg pardon, father. My name is David Lavoie.” This was no further help to Cimourdain, who still could not place him. “You once saved my life from a mouth tumor.”

To his embarrassment, Cimourdain still was not able to recognize his face, but Lavoie needed speak no further: it had been an afternoon's work, nothing more. Some would have called it good luck, perhaps, that Cimourdain had been in the right place at the right time to know how to treat Lavoie's malady. While he was grateful to have saved the man's life, and would give the same answer again to any questions put forth, the fame that had followed him for a few weeks afterward had made him a little uneasy. Many more people knew him as the miracle-working Abbé than he was entirely comfortable with. And yet never had Lavoie's path crossed his again, until that moment. “I am glad to see you hale.”

“And I am glad to see you,” said Lavoie, “as—in fine fettle, as ever.”

“You do not blame me for the...disruption of your day?”

Lavoie hesitated. “You speak, and they follow. So has it ever been with you, has it not? I will miss these earthen faces, but I cannot blame you for being where you think you must. Fortune would will it—perhaps it is only through the grace of God that my life was spared.”

“Then I thank you, citizen. But it is not I who lead; it is my friends, the working people of this nation, much like yourself.”

“No, citizen Cimourdain, it is I who must thank you. For I'm afraid I was in no shape to do so last time we met, and I owe you a rather great debt.”

Cimourdain laughed. “Good health to you.” Lavoie waved, and hurried down the street, away from the crowd.

With a terrible clamor, another statue fell to the ground, and a heavy robe that had been preserving one of the many King Henry's modesties shattered into pieces right across the street where Cimourdain had been standing only moments before. Unconcerned, he strolled back across, too late to deter the gathered crowds from hacking at the remains of an arm and making sure no finger of it remained. Instead, he continued down the avenue, tilting his head back to calculate the best angle for the next demolition.

 _And the Lord said, “Look, they are one people, and they have all one language; and this is only the beginning of what they will do; nothing that they propose to do will now be impossible for them.”_ Genesis 11:6 (The Tower of Babel)

A stack of pages stood piled in front of Cimourdain. On top laid the motto of the fledgling nation. No, he told himself, the fledgling _republic_. France had always been a united brotherhood; it had only taken them agonizing generations to reclaim and acknowledge what was their honorable right all along. _Unité, Indivisibilité de la République_ , it read, the printing rigid and impeccable, _liberté, Egalité, Fraternité ou la mort!_

His script was almost as neat when he copied the article over and over. Then onto the next article, a dispatch explaining how the new calendar worked. Cimourdain hesitated when he came to some of the neologisms. Copying them over sound-for-sound without the cultural context of the language seemed cheap, as if to take away from all the effort that his fellow scholars had spent thinking of verdant names for all the year—days that would not raise one faith above another or shackle the present to the past. Yet trying to improve upon their work made him shudder, too. There were other ways to help find shoes and bread for the sans-culottes than to try to sort through all the shades of connotations for different languages that explained the frost or the harvest-time. No matter how many languages he spoke, no matter how many times they'd asked him, he'd always found a way to be reassigned from those particular decimalization committees and serve elsewhere.

Until that moment, when he thought that if he copied over “Thermidor” one more time his ink might spill in frustration. Perhaps translation really was was elitist work, only serving to benefit a privileged few, but he refused to give into despair. If he could prove that there was a demand for the translation services he could provide, he would have the chance to let more and more people benefit from them.

Or on the other hand, if the revolution could not maintain harmony even in its own ranks, if the Evêché was betrayed by suspicion even among the most committed radicals, how were they to command respect from everyone else? The more he could did to keep them working together and communicating with each other, the more they could accomplish as a whole.

Cimourdain's friend Momoro, who had invited him over, shook his head at the growing mountains of paper. “Would you accept payment for what you are doing?”

“In times like these? Surely not, not until we see what profit it may be.”

“Whether it turns a profit, that I cannot say. But it will do good—that we must believe.”

Cimourdain nodded, and turned to his work again, this time reading about upheaval in Austria.

He was lost in thought, and did not notice when Momoro turned to greet a visitor who arrived without notice. “Ah, good evening, citizen Hébert.”

“Good evening,” said Hébert. “Is everything well?”

“Perfectly! Here, your order is in the back room, come along.” Momoro cheerfully led the new arrival through his house.

But Hébert stopped short when he saw Cimourdain, still writing away. “Good evening,” he repeated.

“Good evening,” Cimourdain said, his gaze flickering up and back down again.

“Your order?” Momoro repeated, beckoning.

Hébert flinched, turning back to Momoro. “You did not tell me you were expecting company?”

“Ah yes, of course!” Momoro smiled. “Citizen Cimourdain here has kindly offered to translate the newspaper into other languages, so that some of the other members of the Convention can read them in their native tongues!”

“ _My_ newspaper?” Hébert repeated.

“Our newspaper,” Momoro waved.

“I would hardly say he's part of it so far.”

“Subscriptions are up! Perhaps he can carry it out to your wagon, if he's not too busy copying it over into Russian.”

“Do you have the materials to print a newspaper in the Cyrillic alphabet?” Cimourdain turned. “That would be very impressive, they don't use the same script that we do, but if you know of any delegates who would be interested in reading it then I will have to think about what to do.”

“No,” Momoro interrupted, “I do not.”

“Was that humor, from citizen Cimourdain?” Hébert asked.

“Perhaps this is not the time,” said Momoro. “Let us see what we may deliver.”

So Hébert followed Momoro outside, and all Cimourdain could do was resume his translation, which was currently in Spanish. Some time later, Hébert took his leave with a cool “Good night, and good luck with your project,” and Cimourdain could only snort as he closed the door behind him with a dismissive thud.

“Does he truly hate me?” he asked, once Momoro had returned. “I had thought he had spent his fill of hatred on the king.”

“He has,” Momoro assured him. “But everything is a threat, to a man like Hébert. You had comforting words to Pereyra when they clashed some weeks ago, and Hébert was afraid Pereyra might try to usurp his own seat in the Commune.”

“Pereyra? But that's ridiculous! Pereyra idolizes Hébert, he would never step on his toes.”

“Does Hébert know that? _Really_ know that?”

“I don't know, I've been on a committee listening to Danton rail about Prussia.”

“Then speak to Pereyra—help him make peace with Hébert, and Hébert may yet set things right with you. He has a busy man and has many things to juggle; better for him not to carry a grudge when he can put it down.”

“Why don't you speak to Pereyra?”

“I speak a dozen words and the nation echoes them back,” said Momoro. “But to move the heart of one fearful man in a proud Convention, Cimourdain, they need you. It may not work, but you are the one who can try.”

And try Cimourdain did, not sure whether Pereyra was listening or had recalled the situation in the same way, or was moved to apologize after hearing it. Only a few days later, in the halls of the Evêché, did he see Hébert flag him down. This time, there was more warmth to his “Citizen Cimourdain?”

“Yes?”

“Is it true that you can speak Flemish?”

“Indeed,” Cimourdain said.

“Might I ask a favor of you?”

“I can make no promises, but you certainly may.”

“I was hoping you could translate the next issue of _Le Père Duchesne_ into Flemish for me. My—friend Pereyra ought to be able to share it in the words of his birth.”

“It would be an honor,” Cimourdain smiled.

And for a moment both of them could share the same dream; that the revolution which was beginning there in France, even as it worked to provide a standard education in a common tongue, would soon catch fire and spread beyond borders, across the world.

_ Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm; for love is strong as death, passion fierce as the grave. Its flashes are flashes of fire, a raging flame. _ Song of Songs 8:6

“Captain Guéchamp?” Cimourdain asked.

“At your service,” said the captain.

“At ease.”

Only the lull in his activity gave any indication that Guéchamp had heard; his alert gaze and stiff posture made it difficult to tell if he had any familiarity with the idea of rest. He had been leading a group of his men to remove what debris they could from the Tourgue, rubble and bodies alike, and was sweeping near the remains of a stairway. Below him, several of his infantry were constructing an impromptu path down from the top levels. It was hardly the most pressing need, but then, they had time.

“According to the Convention, we must have a court-martial to identify our prisoner. Since you are an officer, I will charge you with one of the seats tomorrow. Do you understand?”

“Of course.”

“Very well. Should you happen to run across the whereabouts of Sergeant Radoub, I would appreciate it if you direct me towards him while he recuperates. Otherwise, carry on as you are. You are making fine progress here.”

Guéchamp gave a smile. “Oh, I know right where Radoub is, and he's staying on his feet. A little ear trouble won't keep him down. Just means the men will have to yell twice as loud to get his attention before he ignores them and does his own foolhardy thing.”

“Thank you, captain. If you could give me directions...”

“Look,” said Guéchamp, pointing through a fresh hole in the wall, “down there with his little babies.”

Michelle was cradling Georgette, while Radoub had hoisted Gros-Alain on his shoulders. René-Jean seemed to be admonishing his brother, perhaps mimicking his mother's advice to not touch the bandage that was wrapped around Radoub's ear.

“Do you still have the authority of a priest? The way those two are going, you might have to officiate a marriage sooner rather than later, and not one of those so-called republican kinds either.”

“I think you're getting ahead of yourself,” said Cimourdain.

Guéchamp gave a shrug. “Now that our luck has turned, I'd certainly like to see a wedding around here.”

Cimourdain slowly clambered down the way he had come, then sought out Radoub. As he drew closer, he could hear him speaking with Michelle.

“What miracle is it,” Michelle said, “that Georgette has been weaned, that Gros-Alain knows my face even now—and yet they do not cry out? They sleep, they eat what food we have, they do not weep—while I, who am grown, could not eat or sleep or dream or love for weeks, all for want of them?”

“It is nothing strange,” said Radoub, “it is the way of nature. We with our minds, we will remember these things, but they are young and stronger than we can know, and they will heal. My parents tell me that when I was a young scamp, I tried to learn to walk by racing a mutt in the streets and never did win, and fell over on my face. Do I have any recollection of this? Of course I do not, but here I am, standing on two good legs now, so somewhere I must have learned it.”

“Then they are never to remember their father, who was such a kind and brave man?”

“René-Jean may yet, this I do not know. As for the others—you will tell them of his goodness, and that is how they will learn.”

“I?”

“Of course you! You are the one who knew him best, loved him best, and whoever he may have been, I trust that your children are the best of him. As they are of you.”

“I think with all the songs Gros-Alain has been humming, they are perhaps the best of this batallion.”

“Well, we have always thought as much.”

“We ought to thank you again. For always trying to do your best for us.”

“Citizen Fléchard, I hope I am not being too formal, but—I wish you to know that you are an honored and valuable member of this batallion. And if I have done anything to earn criticism, I would hope that you would find some way to let me know.”

“Oh, surely not!”

“It is no secret that some of my superiors think I am a bit too foolhardy and prone to, ah, reckless charges into battle, on _occasion_ ,” said Radoub. “And perhaps that opinion is held within the ranks as well.”

“I am only a woman, I do not dare critique you.”

“You are not _only_ anything, Michelle Fléchard, you are as brave an adventurerer as any man here. But that's as may be, even if everyone thought I was the boldest and most brilliant soldier in France, I cannot control my own heart. Some days, I feel like a great hero, for it is my honor to march under the flag of the republic. But some days, I feel like a great failure, for I led my troops into a disaster, and saw good men and a good woman perish—and good children snatched out of my hands.”

“No one blames you for the defeat.”

“I hope it is so. But likewise, citizen Fléchard, no one blames you for being wounded or for the loss of your children—rather, we think you magnificent beyond measure for following our tracks, and so too, _you_ ought not blame yourself.”

“Thank you.”

“If you ever need reminder, only send word to the batallion, and I will repeat it as many times as necessary. Or deputize my successor to do so, should I be slain in my next reckless charge.”

Michelle laughed. “Perhaps I will not take my leave so quickly. Someone needs to keep an eye on your ear, and I suspect Georgette will become entranced by your flag the next time she sees it.”

“You see, she will be a good patriot yet.”

“Pardon me,” said Cimourdain, “Sergeant Radoub?”

“Yes?”

“The court-martial to determine the identity of the prisoner will be tomorrow. As a non-commissioned officer, will you serve, if that is agreeable?”

“Of course,” said Radoub. “René-Jean, did you hear that? I am to be in court!”

“Can I help?” René-Jean asked.

“Perhaps! Someone will have to yell very loudly to scream into my good ear.”

“The little one is a translator in the making, just like you,” said Michelle.

Cimourdain shook his head. How could any man's parents guess his vocation, or how the world might change over the course of his life? “One day at a time.”

Midnight fell, and the last sparks of the fire flickered and rose above the plateau.

**Author's Note:**

> The mysterious Latin proverb in the Tourgue seems to translate as farming advice: "cut a sickle through the grass on St. Barnabas day" (June 11). I'm not sure if that has any deeper symbolism, but there you have it.


End file.
